“Rather than succumb…”

The callas in the front are done
mostly done
a few small, late ones
limped up under dogwood
also mostly green now
a few punctured palms
white as empty
still hold — only a few
wrapped cones browning
in April’s longer light
less angled mornings.

In the back yard
in the still empty tomato beds
where the last carrots
left to rabbits and snails, to slugs
raccoons, an ugly gopher,
flop skinny green hairy limbs,
two new callas rise
out of the orange tree shadow,
not belonging — but announcing
just the same — their angry hearts.